


Reflection

by ninemoons42



Series: Two Sides and Three Shadows [2]
Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Crossover, Doppelganger, Injury, Inspired by Art, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Reflection

  


title: Reflection  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: 2236  
fandoms: X-Men: First Class [movieverse], Wanted  
pairings: Charles Xavier/Wesley Gibson, Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: NC-17  
notes: AU for both Wanted and X-Men: First Class. Sequel to [Mirror Image](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/183657.html); please read that one first. Again, it's two James McAvoy characters having sex. This time they might actually reach an understanding.

  
He wakes up as he always does – a murmur in his ear, telling him to get up and go.

Sometimes the voice he hears is Fox's, and he still thinks that's a good thing, no matter that he failed to save her life. He'd hoped to walk out of that fucking textile mill with her. Too bad so sad. He failed, period.

Sometimes the voice he hears is Cross's. Wesley has a serious case of mixed emotions over that. To know his father's voice when he'd spent years not even knowing what he looked like – to know what Cross sounds like when the only real interaction they'd ever had, they'd done by exchanging bullets. When he hears Cross's voice at the beginning of the day he at least knows he'll have to be prepared to do something crazy.

Which is really more than he can say for the days when the voice in his ear is Sloan's. The motherfucker who trained him for the express purpose of killing his own father. When that happens he simply doesn't move at all. Fear and loathing like a slow freeze in his veins. He'll be damned if he responds to that ever again.

The voice is nearby – trickling directly into his head, and _what the fuck?_ Heart, pounding in his ears. Muscles, tensing for fight-or-flight.

_Calm down._

And then he remembers.

Wesley sits up, carefully, and looks over to the side.

A face that looks like his own and not at the same time. Eyes closed in sleep, or maybe he's dozing, or he's about to wake up, or what the fuck maybe he's even just talking in his sleep. Broadcasting. Whatever.

And Wesley feels the bed move and Charles is up, is leaning on his shoulder.

_Morning._

“Hey,” Wesley says. “You weren't exactly comfortable sleeping, were you.”

And, yeah, he can see the point of Charles's grin because his bed was never built for two. Wesley's already receiving memories of rolling over and nearly crushing Charles in his sleep. “Sorry,” he says.

“I know you've stopped saying that – so don't,” is the easy answer.

Wesley looks into Charles's eyes – like his own when he looks at himself in the mirror, but also wildly different – and he has to look away, because it's both strange and amusing. “You enjoyed it.”

“Of course I did. Do you want something to change into? Raven is on her way home and we will really have to explain things to her.”

“No need. I can go if you want.” Wesley shrugs, indifferent. 1962? Meaning the Middle Ages as far as he's concerned. He can probably get by, so long as he can get his hands on a couple of guns. He rifles through his pockets. Of course he's halfway to tapped out, and there probably aren't any ATMs in this time. Damn it.

He's pulling on his jeans, he's hunting around for his socks and shoes and then he makes the mistake of looking up, at Charles sitting down on the floor next to him. He lets himself look into those eyes, they are definitely _not_ his eyes now – and then he looks away. “What.”

Charles's hands on his skin. Greedy, last night; gentle, now, and probing at the makeshift bandage high up on his arm.

Wesley hisses and looks away, wonders about the possibility of duplicating that wax compound in this time and place. If he could only wash the wound in hot water and leave the wax on it for a few hours he'd actually be able to get out of here. Go back to his time.

_Making plans to leave already?_

Wesley looks away from Charles, from the distant sting of the iodine. “I don't belong here.”

“I know you don't.”

“Left things behind. Things that need doing.”

“They did terrible things to you, and I understand....”

Wesley jerks away, then. “Do you?”

And he opens his mind, a concentrated stream of thought, everything about the Fraternity, six brutal weeks and the final assault on the Chicago outpost, his father's sniper rifle. The other Sloan, his terrifying smile. The bullet piercing his flesh, the streak of blood, slow-motion Technicolor full surround-sense.

Anything Charles is about to say is cut off by the scrape of a key in the door and Wesley doesn't even know why he's moving to protect Charles and he's genuinely startled to see the pale blonde – the blue-skinned girl with red hair – standing there.

But she only smiles and shrugs. “You must be Wes,” she says, and she looks around him, at Charles on the floor. “You all right?”

“I've been better, truly,” Charles says.

“I had a nice evening, and I was planning to enjoy the rest of the weekend, so you'd better explain everything and I'll explain myself and I'll leave the two of you alone again.”

Wesley raises an eyebrow when Charles looks at him, because what the hell is he blushing for, it's not like they weren't up to all kinds of _freaky-amazing-good_ shit last night....

 _I am thinking about what you've just been telling me._ “Now,” and Charles scratches his head, like a boy, “will you excuse me for a moment, while I try to talk to my sister?”

“Your house, you do what you want.”

And he watches Charles turn away and then, suddenly – “Oh for heaven's sake” – and he's turning back around, hand on Wesley's neck and it's a kiss, they're definitely kissing and this is not supposed to be happening and.

_Quiet, please. I'm trying to understand you. But you can try to do the same for me, for us, too._

A house in New York, a woman drinking and dying, a kind man who died too soon, an amazingly ugly fuck-up of a stepbrother, fist-shaped bruises on Charles's arms and torso, yelling at Raven to run and lock herself in his room. The ability to ferret out secrets, the long years spent learning how to control his abilities. Loneliness. Huge fights with Raven over her ability, over her control, over different philosophies.

Wesley staggers, and he's about to yell at Charles, but he's already out the door, and he sits down heavily on the bed. The bandage is pulling a little on his arm.

_Direct download, what the fuck._

///

Charles comes in later, carrying a tray.

Wesley looks, but he's not really interested. Sandwiches on a plate, more tea.

Charles looks at him and then he shrugs and smiles and sits down next to the bed. Papers next to him and a pen in his shirt pocket.

If Wesley squints, he can still see the hickey riding the back of Charles's neck. He leans over from the bed and touches his forehead to the back of the other man's head. “I'm not gonna apologize for earlier.”

“I wasn't expecting you to.” Rustle and scratch of pages being scribbled on.

 _Idiot._ Wesley growls and he grabs Charles and pulls him in for a kiss. _I'm not used to this,_ he thinks at the other man, _so let me know if I'm actually getting through, because I have better things to do with my mouth and I know you're not going to be able to object._ He presses close, almost falling off the bed, and he busies himself with licking into Charles's mouth.

There are hands sliding up into his shirt, a quiet grunt and Charles is suddenly much nearer, and Wesley grins and keeps broadcasting. _You're not going to change, or it's going to take you a long time to change, but you need to know these things and you need to know them now. You've already been ground into the dust. You're going to be ground down into the dust again and again, believe me. And even if I went back to my own time I'd be fucking pissed off to find out someone fucked you up just because you didn't fucking change._

_I...thank you for your concern, I think._

_Don't think,_ and if he's practically ripping Charles's shirt off his shoulders, he has a reason for it. _Listen to me! I need you to be okay! I need to be able to hear about you in my time! I don't care if by the time I hear about you again you're old or bald or married or whatever!_ He punctuates each thought – he bites at the pale skin of Charles's throat, sucks a violently red bruise into the skin beneath his right nipple, he runs his tongue around the rim of his navel. _I want to know things worked out for you the way they're not going to work out for me._

Charles suddenly flips the two of them back onto the bed and Wesley looks up, already most of the way to aroused, as Charles hovers over him, as Charles claims another kiss from his lips, a dirty light in his eyes now, tongues and teeth and dueling. _Not that I don't appreciate your concern, but why bother? Even if I followed your advice, who's to say things actually will turn out differently?_

 _I say it,_ and Wesley rolls so now he's on top, moving to straddle Charles's hips, and there's a groan that comes from somewhere because of course Charles already wants him, Wesley can feel him even through the layers of cloth. _Something I realized after six weeks with the Chicago Fraternity. Time is nothing. You experience something, it stays with you, it sticks under your skin._ Wesley slides Charles's ruined shirt off, thumbs his nipples. _They've changed me, and you'll change me – and I want you to change because of me._

 _Hopefully in a good way,_ and the last part of that is swallowed up in a long mental groan because Wesley's got his hand on Charles now, is working him rapidly and viciously.

_Does that really matter, Charles?_

Long pause. Wesley shifts, lets Charles drag his shirts back off, and then he stretches out comfortably, lets Charles buck and writhe against him, loses himself in the sensation of skin against skin.

_It should. Wesley. Your real name, yes?_

_Yes._ Wesley laughs and he's done playing, he peels Charles out of the rest of his clothing, lets Charles strip him the rest of the way and he's sure his grin has turned decidedly predatory as he shoves his fingers into Charles's mouth. _It's either that or you've actually got something I can work with._

He lets Charles go just long enough to open a drawer and pull out a small tube of something, and Wesley grins and slicks up his own fingers, Charles's smile knowing and needy as he spreads his legs. _Do it for me,_ he thinks as he drives his fingers into him, _do it because you want it, I don't care, but you have to do it._

 _Are we thinking about the same thing here?_ Charles sends him an image.

Wesley actually laughs. _You sure you can do that?_

_No, not really – and before you ask, that answers the other question, too._

_Leap of faith, Xavier. I did it and I didn't know how. You're smarter than I am, you should be able to do it and know why._ Wesley grits his teeth and lines himself up, pushes past the initial resistance and he's breathing hard, in time with Charles's gasps, as he sinks completely into him and then begins to thrust. _Please please please._

_Wesley Wesley Wesley._

He fucks him hard, he listens to the pleading thoughts falling from Charles's mind and the encouraging sounds spilling from his lips, and through it all Wesley is still trying to convince him, with his body if not completely with his mind.

He's hoping, as best he can, even as he's getting close, even as he can feel Charles digging into his mind, doing _something_ to him that makes him bite back a shout and struggle not to come, not until Charles does.

The only thing he remembers after that is someone whispering _I will do my best, I can promise you that._

///

When he wakes up in one of his boltholes the wound from the other Sloan's bullet is little more than a faded scar.

He's still carrying Charles's teeth marks on his shoulders.

One day later, he's halfway around the world, pursuing a lead from Pekwarsky.

One week later, he gets back and there is a photograph waiting for him: Charles. Gray in his hair now, and the same eyes. A sharp black suit. He's smiling at Raven, standing next to him, in a white dress that sets off the blue and the red.

The second man is taller than either of them. Handsome son of a bitch, smile like a shark's. Hair gone almost white, curling to his shoulders.

Even in the photograph, there's no two ways around the connection between him and Charles.

Wesley turns it over and there's a message for him on the back.

_I think I took your advice. It was...interesting. But you'll have to come and tell me. Institute for Higher Learning, Westchester, New York._

Wesley Gibson smiles, and lets out a breath he's been holding, maybe for a very long time, maybe since 1962.  



End file.
